


in your junkyard heart

by inlovewithnight



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: BDSM, Fisting, Friendship/Love, M/M, real dense bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-03
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-11-08 10:39:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,974
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17979758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inlovewithnight/pseuds/inlovewithnight
Summary: Sid brought Jack to Pittsburgh for a reason. Jack thinks he gets it. He's pretty sure.





	in your junkyard heart

The deal was simple: Sid would make sure that Pittsburgh brought him in, and in return, Jack would pick up when Sid called.

“You mean, literally?” he had asked, fidgeting in his seat at the fancy steakhouse Sid had taken him to while they hashed out the deal. Jack had expected agents and management to be involved, but Sid said they weren’t necessary at that stage of things. The conversation was just between the two of them. “You just literally want me to talk to you whenever you want to talk?”

Sid stabbed a bit of salad with his fork and put it in his mouth, chewing slowly while he looked at Jack. “Well, that’s part of it. Including literally answering the phone, but not limited to it.”

“Okay.” Jack looked at his own plate and took a tentative forkful of baked potato. “What’s the other part of it?”

“Sometimes I’ll ask you for stuff.” Sid gave a microscopic shrug. “And when I ask, you should do it.”

Jack frowned. “Like you’ll ask me to do stuff, or bring you stuff, or what? Are these physical things?”

“Sometimes.” Sid took another bite, chewing it thoroughly before he picked up his knife and turned his attention to his steak. “Both of those things, at different times.”

Jack watched him eat for a few minutes before he spoke again. “It sounds like you might be asking me to kill somebody for you, at some point, Sid. Is that what you mean to imply, here?”

“Oh my god.” Sid blinked at him, grease dotting his lips until he touched his napkin against them. “No, of course not. That’s… wow. Way outside the limits.”

“Great.” Jack nodded. “What are the limits?”

Sid smiled, a faint curve of his lips, no teeth showing. “Killing or harming anyone is definitely outside them.” 

Jack waited for more, but Sid just thought for a minute, then smiled and went back to eating. Apparently that was all the information he was going to get. And on the one hand, that was deeply weird and a little alarming. On the other, he desperately needed out of Columbus. He needed a new start. He needed someone to give him a chance, and it was getting pretty clear that the only way he was going to get that to happen was if he had somebody pull some strings.

Sid was the only person he knew with any pull. Sid was, by some random miracle, still taking his calls. 

Jack finished his nice steak dinner, shook Sid’s hand in the lobby, and said he’d be waiting to hear more. Sid told him it might take a few days, but not to worry. The call would be coming.

Sure enough, Jack started the new season in a Penguins jersey, with a lease in Pittsburgh. He had a voicemail saved on his phone where Torts ripped him up one side and down the other as a loser and a traitor coasting on an old friendship because he was too weak to make it on his own. He didn’t have a comeback for that, or a lot of hope for the season.

He kept his head down, kept to himself, and waited for Sid to call. 

**

Now it’s midway through the 82 games, and he’s settled into his place on the team. He understands his role, he’s very aware of his fuckups, and the give and take of the room has established itself. There’s more of a pecking order than there was in Columbus; Sid and Geno are unquestionably at the top, and everyone else kind of falls in line behind them, based on a mix of, as far as Jack can tell, seniority and how much those two like them. So Letang is probably third in line, Sid’s lineys drifted toward the top, stuff like that.

Jack himself occupies a weird place. He’s connected to Sid, so he gets a boost, but he’s new and he’s not playing great, so he’s held at arm’s length. He kind of drifts through the locker room with people forming a space around him, careful not to get too close. 

It’s different with the coaches and management, and it is weirder. They treat him with a kind of exaggerated deference that he _knows_ is because of Sid. He is a toy or a tool or something that Sid asked for, and received, and that now has to be kept in good shape for Sid’s benefit. He can’t be damaged, or alienated. He can’t be benched or, god forbid, traded. They need him to play decent hockey, but they can’t do anything if he doesn’t.

It's a far cry from any situation he’s ever been in before in his hockey career. He doesn’t want to take advantage—he _does_ work, as best he can, in practice and games. He tries his best. He is not making any of the mistakes he makes out of laziness or carelessness. He doesn’t want to reflect badly on Sid, if that’s even possible. 

Maybe more honestly, he doesn’t want to test this theory that they can’t get rid of him without Sid’s say-so. If it turned out not to be true, he’d look like a real smacked ass, and would be out of job options on top of it.

So he keeps himself to himself, he does the best he can, and he waits for Sid to call.

**

Sid calls every couple of weeks, at Jack’s best estimate. He doesn’t keep a record or anything, but it feels like every few weeks. Sometimes Sid will ask if Jack wants to meet up for dinner; sometimes he’ll invite him for a jog or some drills on the fake ice in Sid’s basement. Occasionally it’s just a straight-out “Come over, I want to see you.” They all end in the same place, though.

Sid is special. Jack has always known that. Sid needs things he can’t get anywhere else, because it wouldn’t be subtle, or it wouldn’t be safe. Jack is safe, because he owes Sid things. And even if he didn’t, he _cares_ about Sid, still, dammit. He knows that Sid can’t trust that, not anymore. It’s too soft, too unstable a concept; it could be weaponized against him. But he does care. That’s why he can do this.

Tonight, Sid just asked him to come over. Jack drives over to the house, punching in the appropriate passcodes and waving to the security guards on his way there. He’s on a list, he knows, along with the rest of the team. Pre-approved visitors. It’s not anything to be proud of, just a convenience. He has to remind himself of that, sometimes.

He has the passcode to the garage, too, so he can park inside and let himself in through the hallway that leads to the laundry room and the basement. Everything is painfully clean, of course. Sid has a cleaning service out once a week, even though he doesn’t take up enough space in this house to need it. “Gotta keep the dust down,” was all he said when Jack tried to give him shit about it. “Allergens, you know? Bad for the throat and your lungs and stuff. So I have them out to keep all that down.”

Jack taps on the door that leads to the main house before he lets himself through. “Sid?” he calls, slipping his shoes off and hanging his jacket on a hook there by the door. “I’m here.”

“Hey.” He tracks Sid’s voice through the first floor and finds him in the TV room, stretched out on the couch in sweats with bare feet and a recovery shake by his side. His hair is wet and there’s still enough of a flush in his cheeks to give away a workout before he called and a shower while Jack was driving over. 

“What, you didn’t get enough at practice today?” Jack drops into the armchair angled away from the end of the couch where Sid’s head is. “I should tell them you’re doing extra workouts. Earn some brownie points for ratting you out.”

Sid makes a face, his eyes still on the screen. It’s some comedy movie from the 90s, exceptionally dumb in its own day, and Jack can’t imagine it’s aged well. Still, Sid smiles faintly at a corny punchline before he answers. “It wasn’t a real workout. Just stretching and some medicine ball stuff. I felt stiff when I got home.”

“I still should rat you out.” He won’t, and they both know it, but Sid smiles again before he picks up the remote and switches off the TV. Jack watches him sit up and drag his hands through his hair, shedding water droplets onto the couch and his own shoulders.

“Thanks for coming over.” Sid picks up his shake and takes a long drink. “I appreciate it.”

“Of course. That’s our deal, right?”

“It is, yeah.” He takes another quick drink and gets to his feet, walking toward the kitchen. “I still appreciate it.”

Jack watches him go for a moment, then bites back a sigh and follows. “I don’t mean it like, I’m only here _because_ of the deal. I don’t mind helping you out.”

Sid puts the empty shake container in the sink and stretches his arms over his head. “I appreciate that, too.”

“Okay.” They stand there for a minute, staring at each other, each waiting for the other to move. It’s always been like this, Jack’s pretty sure; neither of them has ever wanted to be the one to give in first.

But he’ll do it. It’s part of the deal. 

“So, what do you need?” He tries to soften his posture, his voice; welcoming Sid in, instead of just dropping his defenses and waiting. He even tries to smile, a little, but he’s still bad at that, and Sid just gives him a skeptical look.

Still, since Jack gave in, Sid can give in, too. “Let’s go upstairs.”

They don’t go to the master bedroom; that’s something else for Sid, his inner sanctum or his safe space or something. Jack can’t figure out what it is _exactly_ , just that it’s not for this. Fine. Whatever Sid needs. 

(The master bedroom is great, though, all dark wood and nautical themed, nothing hockey-related in sight. Jack’s dying to know if Sid came up with that rule himself or if the decorator did it and Sid just came to like it in his own time. He can’t figure out how to ask.)

There are something like five guest rooms in the house, but they always use the same one when Jack comes over. It’s at the end of the same hall as the master bedroom, on the north side of the house, looking out over the carefully landscaped grass and trees that Sid does not give one single fuck about. He pays to keep them neatly kept because it’s polite, and being a good neighbor. If given his wildest choice, he would probably rip it all up and put in a putting green, or a pond. 

Or maybe Jack is letting his imagination run wild. He always stands and looks out the window for a minute after they come upstairs, his mind running in circles while the rest of him goes still, the deeper pieces of his awareness pulling themselves into readiness while Sid moves around, taking things from the dresser and the closet and bringing them to the bed, muttering to himself now and then, and finally, when he’s satisfied with all of that, stopping to undress. 

Jack remains clothed. The first time, Sid had explained to him—earnestly, calmly, without a hint of either shame or eager hopefulness—that he needed very specific things, and one of them was for the person helping him with this— _my partner_ , Sid had said, but with none of the layers of feeling one might expect to go with the word—to approach it with a certain amount of detachment. 

“If there’s too much intimacy, it doesn’t work.” Sid had made a face after that, and for the first time, color rose in his cheeks. “I know how that sounds. I’m a freak, okay? That’s just… how it is.”

At least Jack had an answer for that, the same answer he had the first time he heard Sid say it a million years ago. “You’re not a freak.” And he had pushed his sleeves up, looked at the supplies laid out on the bed again, and said, “Tell me what you want me to do.”

There was some variation from visit to visit in what Sid wanted, but never so much that Jack felt overwhelmed. He’d never had to back down or even ask for a pause to reorient himself. It was a point of pride, now, that he could take whatever Sid served up to him—no. That he could _serve_ whatever Sid asked him for. Sid was the one who could take it.

Once Sid’s naked, he gets on the bed, lying down on his stomach with his hands at his side. He rests his cheek on the pillow, looking toward the wall instead of at Jack, but Jack can see that his eyes are already unfocused, his muscles going a little bit soft and relaxed all throughout his body. Sid’s all muscle under the skin like a collection of rocks in a bucket. Watching him soften up so he can turn himself over to Jack is the strangest feeling. Jack can’t get used to it. 

He rubs his palms on his thighs, pulling himself back into the moment, and picks up the spreader bar from the row of stuff Sid laid out on the bed. He buckles the cuffs to Sid’s ankles, carefully, not too tight—there’s a mark worn into the leather of the strap where the buckle fits best, but he always double-checks it, always takes extra care with the multi-million-dollar body—and adjusts the length of the bar, spreading Sid’s legs apart until he winces just slightly. Jack presses the pin to lock it there and pats Sid on the back of his thigh.

“Kneel up,” he says, and Sid squirms on the bed a little, moving to obey. Knees bent, ass in the air, shoulders and face on the mattress to make the third, broad point holding his weight. His toes curl up as he gets used to the position and settles himself. Jack waits for them to relax again before he moves. 

The handcuffs match the cuffs on the spreader bar, expensive black leather and heavy buckles. He cuffs Sid’s wrists but leaves them unattached, placing Sid’s hands back on the mattress at his sides. They tried cuffing them behind Sid’s back the first few times, but it was uncomfortable, put too much pressure on his shoulders whichever way he turned his face. So now he just gives an order for Sid to keep them still, and backs it up if he can’t do it. He knows Sid isn’t quite happy with that—it isn’t _perfect_ , doesn’t duplicate the image he has in his head—but it’s what works.

Sid didn’t get a gag out tonight, he notes, so he just cups his hand against the back of Sid’s head and messes roughly with his hair, pushing his face down against the pillow and then letting go. “You ready?” he asks. His voice comes out low and rough, a little choked. He can’t get over seeing Sid like this.

Sid nods, glancing back at him out of the corner of his eye and licking his lips quickly. “Yeah. I’m good. Thank you.”

Jack waits a beat, then prompts him. “Thank you, what?”

“Thank you, sir.” Sid flushes when he says it, bright red, all the way up to his hairline, and that hits Jack deep in the gut, warm and good and electric. _He_ gets to do this. That’s why he’s here. Sid chose him for it.

Sid’s a neat freak about sex; the first time they did this, Jack had a split second of wondering if Sid expected him to murder something. Elbow-length gloves and rubber sheets visible under the high-threadcount ones, with a knee-high stack of towels beside the bed… well, it raised some questions. He’s used to it now, though. 

He pushes his sleeves up and puts on a pair of the gloves, wincing when they tug at his arm hair until he smooths them out. He picks up the lube next, spilling some out into one hand and slicking the gloves with a thin layer halfway up his forearm. He can hear Sid breathing, rough quick panting that steadies out as Sid turns on his iron control and levels himself out. 

Jack flexes his hands and rests one at the base of Sid’s spine. “Ready?” he asks quietly. It’s too soft, too gentle, and he corrects himself: “Get ready for me.”

Sid ducks his head, a flush spreading under the skin of his back, blooming bright pink from his shoulders all the way down. Jack rubs a small, cautious circle above his tailbone, watching carefully for the moment when Sid’s muscles ease and he centers himself, breathing all the tension out in a slow, controlled stream.

There it is. Jack flexes his free hand again and rests two fingers against Sid’s entrance, letting them linger for just a second of warning before he pushes them inside. He doesn’t go slow, and he doesn’t stop at Sid’s sharply indrawn breath; that’s not what they’re doing here, not what Sid wants. He’s supposed to keep going, to press and slowly turn his hand, to ease Sid’s muscles into further release and open him up. Constant motion, steady and relentless stretching, adding a third finger just before Sid’s really quite ready to take it. Jack’s an expert at this now. He’s memorized Sid’s every shiver and gasp, every choked-off moan. 

He never said that Sid couldn’t make a sound—Sid decided on that restriction for himself. He’d decided on all of this, designing the perfect challenge for his body off the ice. Jack was as much a prop as a partner, but knowing that in his head didn’t mean he didn’t feel familiar heat and hunger in his gut as he worked Sid open enough to push his pinky finger in. He slid his free hand down from Sid’s back, around his side, to palm roughly at Sid’s dick, hard and pulsing hot against his stomach. Jack was hard, too, his cock heavy against his thigh, held loosely in place by his trousers. 

Sid’s breath is still in a rhythm, but it’s gone ragged at the edges and his body is heaving with each inhale. Jack leans in over Sid’s back, lowering his head so he can whisper in Sid’s ear. The movement changes the angle of his arm and his wrist, changing the pressure of his fingers inside Sid’s body, and Sid moans, shuddering all over. 

“You can take more,” Jack says quietly, his breath stirring beads of sweat on Sid’s skin. “I know you can. You can take as much as I want you to take, can’t you? I can push you as far as I want, and you’ll just take it.”

Sid shakes his head, then nods, his teeth digging into his lower lip until it goes white. Jack shifts back to standing over him again, his hand on Sid’s lower back again, steadying him. He withdraws his hand a bit and moves his fingers, curling his thumb against his palm before pushing inside in a steady, deep stroke.

He knows wat Sid needs—depth and stretch and slow, deliberate pulsing of his fist, clenching and relaxing in a rhythm until Sid’s whole body shakes, and then dropping that for depth and stretch again. Sometimes he would turn his hand to the left or right, rotating it inside Sid’s body, and those moments are when Sid comes the closest to breaking down with a wail. 

Jack moves his free hand down to Sid’s cock again, teasing the hot, delicate skin at the head and then sliding back to cup his balls. They’re heavy and drawn up tight, flushed dark, sweaty, and Jack presses his thumb hard against the base, keeping up the pressure until Sid shudders and his hips buck in protest.

Sid’s sweating so much, it’s running down his thighs and dripping onto the bed, soaking through the top sheets. Jack watches a single bead of sweat as it runs down the back of Sid’s thigh to settle in the crease of his knee, then wipes it up with his own thumb and licks it clean. It tastes like nothing, of course—salt and water that’s come from a healthy and hydrated body and run over clean skin, there _is_ nothing—but his mind says it tastes like Sid. He can project all over that, pretend he tastes years and championships and dorky crooked smiles and a temper that no amount of patience and iron will can train out of existence. 

Jack used to be good at drawing that temper up to the surface, getting Sid to blow his stack and clear out all the backed-up emotions that would catch up to him and poison him if he wasn’t careful. That hasn’t been the case since he came to Pittsburgh to play. Sid keeps him at arm’s length when it comes to that stuff, hadn’t engaged with Jack’s efforts to fall back into the pattern. Someone else must be meeting that need these days, Jack assumes; he’s too proud to ask who. He has his guesses, but he doesn’t need them confirmed. That would be weak.

Besides, whoever that person is, they don’t have _this_ , do they. This is what Jack can give Sid now.

“Fuck,” Sid gasps, his voice raw and guttural. He falls forward, his face flat against the bed, and rubs it wildly against the sheets. He leaves streaks of wet behind, sweat and tears and spit. Jack has taken him apart, all the way down to helpless. He did this. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

Jack pushes his hand just the smallest bit deeper. A fraction of a fraction of an inch. Sid wails like he’s dying.

“I guess you probably want to come,” Jack says. He doesn’t move to make it happen, like it’s just an observation. Like he stopped by for coffee and chitchat, instead of fisting Sid til he breaks.

Sid nods, wiping his face on the sheets, more. Jack can see the spit running freely from the corner of his mouth. Broken and helpless and lost all control. Nobody else gets to see Sid like this. Not ever.

“Ask me,” Jack prompts him. He doesn’t move again; if he breaks Sid’s thin grasp on control now, he’ll have to find it again, and it might take long enough to risk really hurting him. Jack doesn’t want that. He’s not exactly well-liked in Pittsburgh as it is. If Sid’s ass gets broken and Jack is the one who calls the doctor, he’ll probably end up thrown off one of the bridges. 

Sid chokes a little, gasps, whines. Jack shakes his head and waits, counting down from five before he asks again. He keeps his voice gentle and soothing, even sweet. He’s just helping Sid do what he wants and needs to do.

“I know it’s hard, but you’re doing a really good job. C’mon. Ask me.”

Sid whines, the sound thin and raw in his throat. “Please. Please, Jack.”

Close, but not good enough. The clock in Jack’s head is still ticking on when all of this will be too much. He needs to keep Sid moving along. But _gently_. “Please what? I know you can do it. C’mon. You’re doing so well.”

He can see Sid gathering himself, feel it in the tiny shifts of his body. An unsteady breath in, a slow breath out. He’s almost there. _Good boy_ , Jack thinks, but he holds back. It’s not time to give any more praise yet, not until Sid does what he’s supposed to do.

“Please let me come.” The first few times they did this, Sid could only manage to whisper his request, his face bright red and tears dripping down his nose. Now he’s steadier about it; actually speaking instead of whispering, his face reddening but no tears. At some point Jack’s going to have to ask him if this progress is what he wanted, or if they have to find a way to make everything humiliating and difficult again. 

Not now, though. Tonight’s clock is still running and they’re almost out of time.

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” He slips his free hand between Sid’s thighs, squeezing at his balls and tugging a little, just enough to make Sid gasp and shake. Sid’s balls are hot to the touch, heavy and hard with blood, flushed dark enough that Jack would worry about it if he saw his own junk looking that way. He presses his thumb against their base again, then wraps his hand around Sid’s cock and strokes, firm and steady. It doesn’t take more than a few seconds of touch before Sid’s hips jerk and he comes.

It doesn’t seem to bring him much relief. He’s still sweating and gasping, rubbing his face on the bed, sweat dripping down every inch of him to soak the sheets. Jack pats his thigh and takes a breath, then wipes his hand clean on the bed. 

“Good boy.” His voice doesn’t shake. He really has gotten good at this. “I’m gonna move now, Sid. You have to take it as best you can. You can yell if you want to, but don’t fight. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.”

They’re hard instructions to follow. Sid’s lost in pure instinct right now, and his body screams at him to fight the withdrawal as hard as it fought the initial intrusion. Jack has to go extra slow, pulling out by fractions, adding more lube to his wrist now and then and guiding it in and out again to ease the way. 

When he finally pulls his hand out, biting his lip to keep from reacting to the squelching sound that accompanies the separation, Sid half-collapses, falling as much as he can with his legs locked with his knees bent and his arms behind his back.

“Easy,” Jack mutters. “Easy. Just breathe, okay? Breathe for me.”

“Help,” Sid sobs brokenly. “Help.”

“I’m right here. I’ll help you.” One thing at a time. Don’t overstimulate by touching too much. Careful and gentle and _slow_.

He takes the restraints off first, tossing them clear of the bed and helping Sid stretch out his limbs. Jack rubs the skin gently, soothing where the leather bit in, then examines everything more closely, from wrist to elbow and ankle to knee. “Tell me if you need any cramps rubbed out,” he says, but Sid isn’t listening; he’s just whimpering and rubbing his face on the sheets, floating somewhere between his head and his body. 

Okay, then; Jack will make assumptions. He massages each limb twice, first the part he checked before and then all the way up to the shoulder and hip joints. Sure enough, Sid’s thighs are tight, and he makes a new set of helpless little noises as Jack works them out. 

“All those years in and out of the trainer’s room come in handy,” Jack says, keeping his voice low and light, a sound that can act as another thread to draw Sid back into himself. “Maybe I’ll take up massage after I retire, eh? I’ll still need a job. When you calm down you’ll have to tell me if I’m any good at it.”

Sid turns his face toward him; at first Jack thinks he’s just following the sound, but then the corner of Sid’s mouth twitches up into a smile, and he opens his eyes a fraction. “Pr’ty good,” he mumbles.

“Thanks. That means a lot coming from you.” Jack smirks at him and shifts him over onto his back, guiding all of his limbs out until he’s lying spread-eagled. “Wiggle your fingers for me. Now your toes.”

Everything moves right, so he leaves Sid there for a moment and grabs a clean towel and a pack of wet wipes. He cleans Sid’s front first, from his face all the way down to his feet, then flips him over and does his back. Sid squirms and grumbles while he’s doing it, which is a good sign; he’s back in his body, not floating out in space anymore.

That means he can tell Jack if anything hurts in a bad way. “Be honest,” Jack reminds him, standing at the food of the bed shaking the towel at him. “Does anything hurt like it’s hurt for real and going to get in the way of you playing hockey?”

Sid glares at him, which is less than convincing given that he’s lying on his stomach with his head turned to one side, and he still doesn’t have himself together enough to move any of his limbs. “I’m fine.”

“You’d better be.” Jack tickled the soles of Sid’s feet, watching closely as he squirmed and kicked. “Okay. Let’s get you into bed.”

“I am in bed.”

“This bed is disgusting.” Thank god for the rubber sheets. “You’re the one who set it up this way, so this bed gets disgusting and yours stays nice.”

Sid presses his face into the bedding. “I don’t want to move,” he says, probably. 

Jack catches him around the waist and hauls him up off the bed, setting him mostly on his feet but making sure his weight leans on Jack’s steadying body. “It’s just down the hall.”

Sid’s nose wrinkles. “I need a shower.”

“In the morning. If I put you in the shower now, you’ll fall and die.” Jack walks them both down the hall and pushes the door to the master bedroom open with his foot. “Don’t argue, okay? Just… just do what you’re supposed to.”

Sid falls silent and does as he’s told, for once. Jack leaves him on the bed and goes down to the kitchen, where a bottle of water, a bottle of Gatorade, and a baggie of pretzels are waiting on the counter. He brings them back upstairs and lines them up on Sid’s bedside table, cracking the lids on the drinks so Sid doesn’t have to fight with them.

Sid takes the Gatorade first and drinks for a long moment, eyes closed, lashes heavy and damp on his cheeks. “Thanks, Jack,” he says softly, not looking up. 

“It’s no problem, Sid.” Jack steps back and folds his arms across his chest. “Do you need anything else?”

“I just… I want to thank you, it’s…”

“It’s the deal, Sid. Remember? We made a deal?” Jack tries to smile at him, but it feels weird, and he gives up pretty fast.

“This isn’t about the deal,” Sid says quietly. 

Jack’s brain sort of goes blank. Trying to think of a response feels like that smile, it doesn’t _work_ , so he lets it go. “Do you need anything else?” he says again.

Sid looks up at him, finally, and there’s a long moment of stillness. “No,” Sid says finally. “I guess not.”

Things are supposed to be going back to normal now. They’re supposed to be reestablishing a distance between them, separating from that state where they’re melted together and Jack can tell Sid what to feel and think. He should back off and let things finish separating. 

But he’s attuned enough to Sid that he knows this _isn’t_ normal. There’s still something else there. So he goes with his instinct. He pushes. Just like being on the ice. “Are you sure?”

Sid squirms a little, frowning. He’s still too exhausted to close himself off and pull away; that’s the advantage Jack has here, and it’s a slim one. “I guess I thought, maybe.” He stops and frowns, glaring at the empty air. He turns the glare toward Jack for a flicker of a second, a heartbeat, and Jack almost wants to laugh. God, Sid is so stubborn. Even when there’s nothing left in him to put up a fight, he still wants to do it, just so he doesn’t have to be seen giving way. 

“I guess I thought maybe you could stay. If you want.”

Jack blinks. “Stay? Stay where?”

“Jesus Christ.” Sid closes his eyes and breathes in deeply through his nose. Jack knows he doesn’t have room to talk, but—it’s a big nose. Sid dragging in a dramatic breath like that could create a vacuum. “I know you’re not this dumb, Jack.”

“I’m not being dumb! I just don’t get—” If they were their younger selves again, or entirely different people, and if Jack hadn’t already turned Sid inside out tonight, he would smack him right now. “You want me to stay, like, in case you need something? Are you hurting or like… are you _bleeding_?”

“No! Fuck!” Sid thumps his head against the pillows. “I’m _fine_. I’m asking if you want to stay just to _be here_.”

“Here in this room? Here with you?”

“Oh my god, what is wrong with you?” Sid rolls over, facedown on the pillow. “Never mind.”

“No, hey. Look at me.” Sid doesn’t move, so Jack grabs him by the shoulder and flips him back over himself. “Doesn’t that break the rules?”

Sid stares at him. “What rules?”

Okay, fair enough, there was never a rulebook laid down. “Or, well, blur the lines, I guess.”

“Blur what lines?” Sid shakes his head a little. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The lines around this—this thing. The stuff we do.” Jack is fumbling in the dark, and from the blank look on Sid’s face, he’s not getting any help anytime soon. “You call me, I do what you say, then I go home and we don’t talk about it. It’s not—we don’t talk about it, away from here. It’s walled off. In lines.”

Sid blinks a few times, his eyes widening like something just clicked into place, then narrowing like he thinks Jack’s an idiot. Jack’s familiar with the look. “I see what you’re getting at, I think,” Sid says finally. “But I never said that.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No.” Sid shakes his head, his jaw setting firmly. “Never did. I wouldn’t.”

Jack thinks back to the meeting in the restaurant, all the things Sid had said, the weird vibe around everything. The air practically _humming_ with weirdness. Maybe enough weirdness that he remembered something wrong?

If he did, he can’t remember it now.

“Maybe you didn’t,” he says finally, giving up on his memory. Blame concussions, blame the weirdness, blame some kind of memory-wiping ray Sid has hidden in his house. Jack knows he won’t ever know for sure. 

But maybe it doesn’t matter as much as he thought.

“I definitely didn’t,” Sid says sourly. “Like I just said.”

“Fine,” Jack mutters. “Don’t be a dick about it.”

“Are you going to stay or what?”

And there’s something there, in Sid’s voice, just a hint under the impatience. Now that Jack’s not listening with the assumption that he’s not allowed to get too close, he’s pretty sure he hears it, and knows what it means.

Maybe he’s kind of good at knowing when Sid wants something enough that he can’t say it too loud, because not getting it would hurt, and Sid _hates_ that. Put his body through a meat grinder and he’ll take it stoically. Hurt him in the feelings and he’ll run for the hills.

“Yeah,” Jack says, meeting Sid’s eyes so he knows that Jack means it. “Yeah, I will.”


End file.
